Hit It, Sister
by Road Rhythm
Summary: Jess is not a violent person—not even remotely—but even she sometimes just wants to get her hand in there and stroke Sam's feathers straight backward.


Written for salt_burn_porn on LJ, for the prompt _drunken spanking_.

* * *

Jess is not a violent person. Not remotely. She's the calm, reasonable one, always thinking before she speaks, rarely snappish, rarely agitated. Nice. One of the quiet ones. It's always come more naturally to her to channel any extremes of emotion into projects, whether paintings or proofs, than gestures. People make assumptions about the quiet ones, though. Classmates look at her oddly when she offers up a dispassionate defense of Machiavelli, or quotes statistics of violent crime, or sketches a fledgling she found dead on the sidewalk, because she is, as grandmotherly types always feel compelled to tell her, "just so _sweet_, dear." If she were quiet and broody, sure. But she's quiet and sweet. Her darknesses have no visible source. For this reason, most people assume they're not there.

Sam never did, and she loves him for that.

So, no. Not violent. Not even passionate, by most people's conception. But then there's _Sam_, whose quiet is an entirely different make and model from hers, always so polite and restrained, half the time with his cap screwed on so tight that Jess is pretty sure he forgets it's meant to come off, and even she sometimes just wants to get her hand in there, ruffle it around, and stroke Sam's feathers straight backward.

"It's not falling-down drunk if we're holding each other up, right?" she asks.

Sam takes time out to concentrate on the complexities of descending the Gecko Echo's code-dubious stairs without removing his hand from her waist. "Definitionally not," he agrees, enunciating just a hair too carefully.

They are not, in fact, falling-down drunk. They'd pass pretty decently for respectable, sober folk if they just gave up on maintaining constant body contact, but all her life Jess has seen people do that thing where they walk along with their arms slung around each other or their hands in each other's back pockets, and they make it look so _easy_, which it is _not_, and Jess has never been any good at it sober, so obviously it's time to try it drunk. Anyway, she can scritch Sam's stomach with her nails this way, and that's a thing she likes doing.

They're going to fuck. That's definite. What Jess hasn't figured out yet is exactly how. Something thorough, she knows that; it's been quickies for way too long. Quickies are awesome, mind, especially with Sam, who seems to know how to work with time constraints and can pack a lot of intensity into not a lot of encounter. He's never been particularly kinky with her, but he can definitely have… an edge. Sometimes he'll get this glint in his eye, pick her up like she weighs nothing, and fuck her against the nearest surface so that she has to hang on tight. Aggressive. Dominating. Toppy little bastard, as Jess's next-door neighbor put it admiringly once when he'd had her up against the shared wall the night before. She said it with Sam right there, too, which led to him going pink and stammering in horror while Jess cracked up.

Movement catches her eye: it's them, reflected in the plate glass window of a bookshop that closed hours ago. Sam's got his arm around her in a way that looks positively gentlemanly, but the reflection doesn't show where his fingers are twisting into the elastic of her underwear. A couple of blocks down the street, the dark spire of the a chapel marks where their block of student apartments lies right on the next corner. "Almost there," Sam says into the top of her head, voice low. He gets a shiver, and Jess can feel him smirking.

So maybe Jess is okay with the aggressive thing. Very, very okay with it. Maybe she gets all warm and thrumming thinking about it.

They hit an uneven brick, totter when their mutual center of gravity proves hard to keep track of, and find themselves ballroom dancing for a moment as they try to keep upright, giggling, laughing in this incredulous, dorkorific way Sam has. Sam presses her way too carefully up against a lamppost and kisses her with her whole face in his hands.

Actually, Jess considers, she'd like to try some of that toppy bastard stuff for herself.

She bites at his lip when he goes to draw back and watches his eyes darken. Then she grabs his ass. A knot of students going the opposite direction on the sidewalk whoops, and Jess kneads Sam's cheeks to give them a show.

"Fuck, Jess," he gasps. He's blushing, mortified, and more than a little turned on.

She smiles her sweetest smile. "Yes, Sam?"

"We're in _public_." His voice comes out less admonitory than awed. Jessica Lee Moore, quiet and _sweet_ but undemonstrative, does not hump her boyfriend on the street.

"Yup," she agrees. She digs her fingers in through the denim, senses dragging and syrupy with the alcohol, just enjoying the sensation. Sam has a nice ass. You might even call it sweet.

Sam thrusts his hard-on against her hip, heavy and deliberate, just once. Then he peels them away from the lamppost and on down the street, this time with his hand in the small of her back. Jess slips one hand into his back pocket—nearly trips over her own feet walking that way, but so what—and pinches.

The glaze in his eyes in the light from the chapel facade is really enjoyable.

"Jess."

"Yes, Sam?"

"If you keep doing that—"

"What? You'll spank me?"

Sam's eyes dart in honest-to-God terror to the group of nuns chatting in coifs and sneakers out front of the chapel, and Jess almost dies laughing. You'd think he'd been the one to go to Catholic school. "Jessica!" he hisses.

She should not be enjoying how easy it is to get him all flummoxed. She is a bad girlfriend. She is a very, very bad girlfriend who needs to do some punishing. Something in that thought got twisted the wrong way around, she's pretty sure, but right now, she really can't care.

"What, so you're not going to spank me?"

He deliberately removes her hand from his pocket, too busy trying to make himself a foot or so shorter than he is to look at her.

"Okay." Jess leans close to him as they walk, drops her voice, and says, "I'll spank _you_, then."

_SMACK._

She barely feels herself do it. She is cruising along on the sweet-spot of drunkenness, and a few frames seem to drop out of the reel here and there. Just, one moment she has her mouth against Sam's ear, and the next, her hand is stinging.

And the nuns are staring at them.

It can't have been that loud, she knows it can't, but the crack of her hand on his ass seems to be echoing from the surrounding buildings. Jess and Sam both stand stock-still for several long seconds. Then, without saying anything, they grab each other's hands and make a run for it.

Jess could swear she sees one of the nuns turn away laughing.

The apartment's only half a block away, thank God, but the sprint and the tequila and just maybe the getting spanked by his girlfriend in front of nuns have put color high in Sam's cheeks and a glitter in his eyes and _fuck_. Jess gets the door open and pulls him inside.

She loses her top first thing, gets rid of his hoodie second. He hops across the bedroom floor trying to yank off a sock. She nearly faceplants shimmying out of her jeans. Eventually they make it to the bed in one piece and with the room only slightly swaying. It's Friday night, there are no projects or papers, and they have nothing to do but neck like teenagers in the warm, humid air drifting in through the window for as long as they feel like.

Damn, but they've gotten good at this. They may not have all that much experience to draw on outside of each other, but Sam and Jess are dedicated and research-oriented people, real academic pillars, and some of the keenest satisfaction, as her Diff Eq professor is fond of saying, comes from specialization. Being able to kiss at a pace that can last for hours. Knowing exactly where on Sam's spine to run her nails, and when it's better to use a single finger or all five. Sam knowing exactly how to massage her scalp, without once breaking the rhythm of his thigh rocking into her panties.

Best of all, they can keep raising the bar. It's a bit of a Hallmark overstatement to say that it gets better every time, but it sure as hell only gets better over time, and Jess already has her next goal clear in her mind. She forgot it for a few minutes in the slow burn of making out with him, but she's on a quest to get him to drop his control completely. Because Sam's a quiet one, too—right up until the moment that he isn't. When that moment comes, she wants to be there to see it. It's not that she's particularly kinked toward rough sex, just that she wants to _know_. Wants to know what Sam Winchester will look like completely uninhibited, because even when he's fucking her against a wall, he'll be cradling her head to make sure she doesn't get bruises. There's something occluded at the heart of him, something potent even unseen, and she thinks there might be at the heart of her, too.

Or maybe that's just the tequila talking.

Jess sits up to work herself closer to the middle of the mattress. She yawns like a walrus, because tequila, and reaches over to tug at Sam's erection through the soft fabric of his underwear, because hello, Sam's lovely cock. He grins that grin of his with eye-crinkles and blinding-white teeth and, on this occasion, slight alcohol-induced dopiness, and follows her, walking on his knees. He reaches for her bra and promptly overbalances.

"Hrmphugle," he says, when her knees end up in his stomach.

"Oh, my God." She covers her mouth, trying not to laugh, running her other hand over his bare back. "Baby, are you okay?"

Sam groans, but it's a sound of injured pride, not embarrassment. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fi—"

He stops in the middle of getting his arms under himself to move off of her. The act has pushed his ass up into her palm and his cock into her lap, and, well. She hadn't lost sight of her promise, but neither had she decided how to get things back on topic. Good of Sam to go dropping a segue into her lap, as it were.

God, but he looks good like this. A spike of want goes up through her. She's seen him lots of ways, but never spread awkwardly over her lap with his mouth working silently and a blush building all over again.

Sam goes to roll off of her, and Jess pinches. Hard.

"Jess." He sounds breathless.

"Yes, Sam?" She lets go of the flesh and fabric between her thumb and forefinger and runs her whole hand over the spot.

He huffs out a "_fuck_" and steadies himself on his elbows. It's permission.

Spanking. How do you do a spanking? Has to be pretty straightforward, right? Jess bites her lip and unfolds her legs, urging his hips up for a second to get him properly settled on her lap. She draws her hand back and lets a decent swat fly.

She drops her voice as low as it can go. "You've been a bad boy, Sam."

They both break out laughing.

"No, hang on, I can do this," Jess says when she gets her breath back.

"You want to do this?" Sam's voice is muffled by the bedspread under his cheek.

She looks down at him again. "_Oh_, yeah."

"Because, you know,"—He's teasing her, only he's doing a piss-poor job of it because his voice has gone all breathy.—"if it's too kinky for you, we could always—"

Jess lays it on him.

It's like kissing, in a way, she realizes a few minutes later. In fact, it's like most things to do with sex: rhythm is the key. Once she finds the right tempo, the right combination of force and timing, it's like going into a trance. _Slap, slap, slap, slap._ One hand after another, like playing drums. Her palms sting. Sam's fingers are gripping and ungripping the bedding, his breathing slow and deep. The pink of his skin slowly spreads from under his boxers, spilling down his thighs and up his back. Gradually, his hips relax, settling heavy over her lap until his cock presses into the damp triangle of her underwear, grinding just a bit every time a blow lands.

She halves her pace, spanking on the downbeat and dragging her nails lightly over his back on the upbeat. "Like that?" she murmurs.

It takes him a moment to respond. "Yeah," he gets out.

"Good." She pulls his boxers down. He is bright, sunburn red. She lays both hands on his ass just to look at them on that incandescent skin and feel the heat, and he chokes. She badly wants to touch herself, can feel the ache between her thighs, but this is so much more important. "Can I—" She bites at her lip. "Can I do it harder?"

He goes rigid. For a moment she thinks, _Shit, shit._ Then he says, "_God_, yes," and is it just the alcohol that makes this so heady?

Jess slaps him hard, and on bare skin, it is _loud_. Sam squirms. She remembers to say, "Tell me if it's too much," and hits him again.

_Whack_. And again. She brings her fingers down across his skin, leaves white prints there before they bloom red again. Sam says her name, but he stays still, just lying there sort of quivering a bit, and Jess needs to see him move, so she draws her hand back and brings it down as hard as she can.

His whole body jumps. That's better.

"Jess." She recognizes that helpless note in his voice, because she's heard it in her own when he puts her legs over his shoulders. She wants to hear more of it. Lots, lots more.

"Yes, Sam?" _Crack._ He jumps again, blotchy ass tensing as he thrusts once into her lap, and she snakes her left hand between his legs and rolls his balls in it. She loves how they feel. She's never been able to shake her fascination with the texture, with how _fragile_ they are. "Did you have something to say?"

He bites the bedspread and makes a noise at the back of his throat.

He's so vulnerable like this, and yet she knows she can't hurt him. Or, rather, she can hurt him all she likes, all _he_ likes, and not harm him. She can grab the flesh just above the sulcus and pinch so hard that he'll have welts, rain blows on his fever-hot skin until her hand goes numb, stroke his cock gently and slap his ass brutally, and apparently he'll just take it. Something's starting. There are tremors in his thighs and his breaths are coming faster and shallower. She was just feeling her way, here, trying on angles and velocities and doing whatever she could for the fun of finding out what it's like, but she was also afraid that she would take him out of the moment, tip this all over from sexy to just painful. That's not happening. The signs are subtle, but he's getting desperate, and he's only getting harder.

"Jess, please."

_Okay, Jess. You are drunk and you are spanking your boyfriend and it is good. Go for broke._

She bows over him, lets her hair fall over his back and whispers into his ear, "Call me Sister."

She expects him to laugh at that. She expects _her_ to laugh at that. What she does not expect is for him to make a sound at the back of his throat like he's dying and rut into her lap. She blinks. Huh. Something there, but she's too tipsy and too aroused to hunt for it now.

"Oh, God. Oh, _fuck_. Please, Je— Please, Sister."

_Crack_. "Please what?"

Only a whimper for answer. Well, she did just pinch his ass pretty hard.

"Speak up, Sam," she says, squeezing his cock deliberately.

Silence. That's also unexpected.

She frowns, stroking the skin she's been hitting almost absently. "Sam? You okay?"

He clears his throat. "Yeah." The moment has broken, a bit; some of the weird intensity has been let out through the crack. He flexes his arms and makes muscles ripple all the way down his back in a way he has to know will make her throat dry. "Please," he says, voice steadier, "spank me harder… Sister."

Jess has been good this whole time, not touching herself once because she wanted to feel the anticipation build up, but she is reaching her rope's end. She rubs his ass one more time and raises her hand. "Count down from ten for me."

_Crack._ Sam exhales. "Ten."

_…two, three, four,_ Jess counts in her mind. She brings her hand down again on the other cheek.

_Crack._ "Nine."

_…two, three, four,_ a broad, steady tempo, and then another stroke. Maybe a harder one.

_Crack._ "Eight." There's an edge in Sam's voice.

Jess fills the offbeats with skimming her fingertips just barely over Sam's raw skin and watching the fine hairs go up on the back of his neck.

_Crack. Seven. Crack. Six. Crack. Five._ When she leaves her hand there at the end of each slap, Sam pushes up into the touch.

_Crack._ "Four," she whispers along with him, and draws her hand up again.

_CRACK._

She stares at him, unable to look away. For some reason, she just needs to know if he has a limit, if she can sting him deep enough to even break his arousal. Needs to try.

_CRACK._

"Two."

Just one more try.

_CRACK._

"One," says Sam, voice strained, and lies there with every sinew in his legs taut, waiting.

Jess lets her breath out. She's done waiting.

"Good. That was good, Sam. Now get up here and fuck me, and make it good."

He's rolling off her and coming back up so fast it makes her brain stutter. He chucks off his underwear, scrambles at the nightstand for a condom, and puts it on with his hair askew and his lips bitten red. Jess ditches her panties and opens her legs.

He surges up to kiss her; it's hot and wet and redolent of sour tequila. It's fucking great, is what it is, but she still shoves her hands into his sweaty hair and holds his head away from her. He looks so shocked and wounded, like a dog that's just run face-first into a window, and she has to suppress a giggle that nearly comes bubbling up from somewhere in her tipsiness and power high. "Did I say 'kiss me'? I said 'fuck me,' Sam. Get on it. Do that thing I like where you drop straight down and I feel it all the way through, and do it until I come."

She hadn't thought his pupils could get any wider.

The move is physically strenuous, even for him, but he does it, over and over until his arms strain and his sweat is falling onto her bra, between her breasts, until the magic tingle deep inside can get traction and start to rise in volume. He gives her exactly the tempo and the consistency he knows she needs in this position. Jess shuts her eyes, lets her body go slack, and focuses on nothing but her pleasure until it rolls up, sweeps all her senses into alignment, and takes her over the brink. She comes crying his name.

"Jess?" Sam's letting his thrusts back off, but he's still waiting for her word.

She smiles at him. "Yeah, you can come now."

He makes a noise and presses forward, getting his arms around her and pushing his face into her neck. His thrusts change into heavy snaps forward. No detours, no scenic route; he's just driving for his release. Tenderness hits her and she helps him, wrapping her legs around his waist and rolling muscles inside. And digging her fingers into his ass. He pants against her neck and hauls her against him.

On impulse, almost experimentally, Jess bites hard into his shoulder.

Sam comes silently, same as he always does, body going tight and mouth stretching open against her skin. He thrusts a couple more times, almost convulsively, and falls still.

"Jess," he breathes out. "God, you're amazing."

While his chest heaves against hers, Jess opens her eyes and looks at the bite mark. There's no blood; she didn't break the skin. She's glad about that. But in the moment when she bit him, she didn't know whether she would or not.

It takes a good few minutes for them to get their breath back. They're stuck together with sweat, and when Sam climbs gingerly off her, her hair catches on his skin and tugs. He deals with the condom and flops back onto the bed beside her.

Jess stares up at the plaster between the roof beams. "So, spanking."

"Spanking," Sam agrees, sounding dazed.

She clears her throat. "This going to be a thing?"

He turns his head on the mattress to look at her. "God, I hope so."

She plays with the sheet with her toes, warm and musing. "Yeah. I think it should be a thing."

Jess isn't a violent person, but she thinks she can see the beauty of certain kinds of violence.


End file.
